Becoming Pierre
by GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: Why does LeBeau call Newkirk "Pierre" - and more importantly, why does Newkirk let him? Rated T for some unpleasant medical detail and a swear word.


"Oh, fuck, it's you." Shivering in the cooler, Peter Newkirk saw his new cell mate being shoved through the door. That annoying Frenchman.

"Don't worry, I feel the same way." Louis LeBeau stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves, disgust on his face. The cell stank, and his companion was scruffy and filthy.

"J-j-j-just stay over there," Newkirk gestured. "Don't c-come near mmme."

"Don't worry. I don't want to come near you. When's the last time you bathed?"

"My nanny's off duty," Newkirk snapped. "The mmminute she gets back she'll have me all clean and powdered and ready to see Mummy and D-D-Daddy."

"Fou Anglais," LeBeau muttered. "Is there nothing to cover that bucket? You must be sick."

"No. There's nothing. And the guards won't dump it out until it's full. I've asked." He huffed and looked weary.

"Oh," LeBeau said. He sat on the only cot and looked across the cell at the young Englishman. He was sitting on the floor, knees pulled close. "Come away from the bucket," LeBeau said.

"I c-can't," the Englishman returned.

"Oh," LeBeau replied, comprehending the dilemma. "That bad?"

"Yes. Ssssorry," Newkirk replied. He sounded like he meant it. "Don't eat the soup or we'll be fighting for this thing." He looked up and grinned cheekily, or tried.

LeBeau got on his feet and approached Newkirk. He crouched in front of him and laid a hand across his head. "You have a fever. Come. Lie down on the bunk."

Newkirk grunted. "No. Go 'way," he finally said.

LeBeau didn't budge. He studied the Englishman's face. He was young, if you looked past the weariness and the stubble. He was grimy, except for streaks under his eyes. "You've been crying," he said softly.

He wasn't prepared for the strength of the response. Newkirk punched him hard on the shoulder, sending him toppling.

"Have n-n-n-n-n-nah, n-n-n-not," Newkirk replied.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," LeBeau replied as he stood and brushed himself off. "I can see the stains on your face. And you don't need to be nervous around me. I would cry too, stuck in here with dysentery."

Newkirk opened his mouth angrily, but just hung there, making a choking sound.

"Chut, chut," LeBeau said. "Are you OK? Do you need a drink of water?" He looked around frantically and saw only a pail with a greasy translucence on top. "We don't have clean water."

"I'm, I'm, I'm nnnot nnnervous," Newkirk finally got out. "I st-st-st-st-st..." Here, he gasped. "Oh, I bloody well st-st-st-stammer."

"I'm sorry, I had no idea," LeBeau said. He'd seen the Englishman but hadn't ever talked to him. "All right, well come on up." He was moving him toward the bunk when Newkirk suddenly dropped his trousers and lurched to the bucket. He sat there and started crying in pain as the stench filled the room.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he cried. "Why'd they have to put you in here with me? You must be disgusted."

"Trying to kill both of us, probably. The sergeant of the guard is on leave. They can get away with more cruelty in his absence." He looked at the Englishman. "It hurts, eh?"

Newkirk nodded, looking miserable.

"Take your time," LeBeau said. After a long moment, he ventured, "Can you get up off the bucket now?"

"Need to wash myself first," Newkirk replied, looking embarrassed.

"Here, I will help you," LeBeau said, reaching into his pocket and extracting a large handkerchief. He waved it out and considered the situation, then tore it into quarters. He poured water on one piece and squeezed it out so that it warmed up in his hand. "Use this," he offered.

Newkirk face contorted at the unexpected act of kindness. He fought back tears as he wiped and dabbed himself clean, then poured water from the pail over the cloth to rinse it off for another use. LeBeau helped him wash his hands and settle onto the bunk, then sat down beside him.

"I am Louis LeBeau. Remind me of your name," LeBeau said.

"P-P-P-P-P-P" he went on for quite some time.

"Can't you remember your name?"

"Of course I can! I'm not dim! It's j-j-just hard to say, alright? Why can't you j-j-j-just leave mmme alone?"

He sounded angry, but he looked lost and afraid. No, LeBeau thought, he would not back down.

LeBeau reached into a pocket and extracted a pencil and a letter from his mother. "Write it here and I'll say it." His words were soft and coaxing.

Newkirk looked at him skeptically, but wrote anyway.

"Peter Newkirk. Well, it's nice meet you. But I'll call you Pierre if you don't mind."

"I do mind! Why would you call me that?"

"It's just that 'Peter' has a specific meaning in French. You won't like it."

"My mum said it means 'a rock,' like the foundation the church was built on. What's wrong with that?"

"That's noble, but in French it's not so grand."

"What are you driving at?"

LeBeau grinned. "It means, how do you say in English? 'To fart.'"

"Oh," Newkirk said. "Really? Are you having me on?" He looked very annoyed.

"I'm serious. Péter is 'to burst,' if we're being polite. Je pète, tu pètes, il pète, nous pétons, vous pétez, ils pétent."

Newkirk's irritation had turned to amusement. "It doesn't sound the same, but i suppose it's fitting. All right, you can call me Pierre. But don't you bloody well tell a soul why."

"It's our secret," LeBeau said.


End file.
